John - where dullness is pointed. (emptyjohn) wrote in scabapples,
John - where dullness is pointed.
emptyjohn
scabapples

Because that prick came home at two a.m. and slammed the door despite what I’d asked him before and woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep for ages listening to the weasel-faced son of a bitch clomping around with his girlfriend and shouting fucking shouting to one another even though they couldn’t be more than six feet apart when my alarm goes off at half seven I turn on the TV and then lie in bed unmoving half asleep and needing a piss for half an hour until I hear the door go and the shower come on and I realise the other one’s going to be in there forever and I really need to piss and I’m late and I lie in bed shaking my head and thinking what I’m going to say to that fucking asshole prick downstairs when I notice that the heating’s on and must have been since he got in last night even though the timer is perfectly fine but he doesn’t care because I pay the goddamn heating bill. Motherfucker I say over and over, rushing downstairs in my dressing gown fucked off that another day is already pretty shit and I’m not awake more than forty goddamn minutes. I click the heating off and hope he wakes up frozen never listening never a thought for anyone else. I can feel the taut balloon of my bladder, my kidneys backing up and I hop from foot to foot angrily listening to the constant stream of the shower. I walk upstairs my head starting to throb and passing the airing cupboard check the auxiliary heater my heart sinking because I know it’ll be on despite the central heating being on all night and there being no reason at all to put it on. It’s on, I click it off my rage blossoming and I rush back to my room my fist to my mouth cursing and I slam the door as hard as I can but it doesn’t catch and slowly swings open again. Incandescent with rage, eyes wide with incredulity I slam the door again and then kick it for good measure then stamp on the floor. I pace back and forth trying not to piss my fists tightly clenched. I look at my room. How the fuck is it so dirty I tidied it not last week. I kick an empty bottle of coke, feel a choking flurry of rage percolate in my chest. I must piss. The shower stops and I walk down the hall to the bathroom and stand outside for a moment biting my lips and whispering come on come on come on when suddenly the shower starts again. I look at the sky my eyes burning through the ceiling destroy in flame every obstacle between me and god. Why why why. My knuckles whiten. I imagine Joe slipping in the shower, a long irregular wound, blood pumping out of an artery, the edges crinkling from the water, the steam, me pissing on his appalled slumped dying body laughing hahaha you fucko. The water stops again spinning on my heal I scurry back to my room and close the door behind me breathing hard. Great: no time for breakfast no time for coffee what a great way to start the fucking week after a total waste of a weekend. Hurry the fuck up hurry the fuck up. As soon as Joe’s door closes I sprint to the bathroom and stand afront the toilet without closing the door and urinate gloriously. The ache recedes. Like a fucking racehorse. My mood lightens momentarily, emptying myself with my hands on my hips in front of the bathroom window, but then I remember how late I am and stamp back to my room hoping in vain that I’ll wake that cunt downstairs up. Back in my room I get dressed and watch the singularly moronic morning breakfast show, the vapid perma-rictus of the brain dead bitch, the awful, ridiculous journalism, scumbags. Scumbags I say it again, louder. Next door I hear Joe listening to The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Goddamn him I think turning the TV up louder drowning too loud really but fuck it, scumbag fucking chili peppers. I leave the TV on and pound my way downstairs actually stamping on the floor and to the kitchen which is a total state, a plate with scumbag’s left over kebab from last night that will sit and rot for a week luring vermin in off the streets why don’t we scumbag. I turn off the tumble dryer and take his mostly dry clothes out and put them on the tabletop and take my clothes from the washing machine and put them in the tumble dryer and switch it on. I go to the fridge and know he’s taken my orange juice and when it’s not there I’m not even surprised it figures it fucking figures you when I see it at the back, moved so his highness can put his milk in the door to sour and rot for a week, motherfucker. I stamp back upstairs how the fuck did it get to be half eight and grab my bag slamming the door ignoring Joe’s good morning from his open door bound down the stair again actually hurting my goddamn foot and out into the bright shitty sunshine slamming the motherfucking door behind me on my shitty house shitty housemates and head off seething at the world towards the station but I’ve forgotten my travelcard so I don’t get far and work can go fuck themselves and I storm up to my room and that cocksucker has turned off my TV the fuckhole so I turn it back on and turn it up and lock my fucking room and smiling now leave again slamming the door hard and off away you scumbags fuck you fuck you all. Have a nice day you goddamn shit eaters have a niiiice goddamn shitty fucking day.
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